


the family business

by icedmango



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:13:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21912727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icedmango/pseuds/icedmango
Summary: AU. Jason graduates highschool with a full ride to Princeton, gets adopted by a billionaire, quits being Batman’s partner-slash-sidekick, and kills a man – not necessarily in that order. Then, Robin is born on the streets of Gotham a year into his undergrad career.
Relationships: Cassandra Cain & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46





	the family business

**Author's Note:**

> → this is an au where the robins (and other batkids) show up and take the mantle in a randomized order. it’s not a retelling of dick>jason>etc nor is it a reverse robin au where it’s duke>damian>etc. the order is both shuffled and a surprise.  
> → there are no major age swaps beyond dick and cass + jason.  
> → this really is more of a character study and analysis of how each robin is shaped by circumstance and situation vs their actual personality and character. how do they all develop differently if they had just met bruce at a different time and in a different context?  
> → this doesn’t follow any specific continuity so if you’re looking for a new 52 or post crisis specific story then try elsewhere.

1.

“Listen,” Jason says. “I don’t care about why you’re here and adopting me or that you bought me a chili dog. Just know that I can and will have Batman beat you up if you try anything, you rich creep.”

“Will you,” Bruce Wayne says, unfazed, but he frowns down at Jason, not _I am upset with you_ or _Batman is a fairy tale_ but just _I am taking you seriously_. 

“I will,” Jason says. “I _know_ him. If you do anything, I’ll call him and he’ll take care of you.” Jason takes a bite of his chili dog and tries to glare up at Mr Wayne – _call me Bruce_ , _Jason_ – the same way Ms Johnson glares at him when she finds him tucked away in the library instead of in his room, with eyes all cold, flinty and plain mean. He’s not sure how successful it is, but Mr Wayne nods once, slow and considering. “He could – he could snap you in half.”

Mr Wayne nods at him again. “I believe you,” he says, solemn, then with more warmth, “Do you want ice cream?”

Jason isn’t done with his chili dog, but he says yes anyway, jerks away when Mr Wayne tries to hold his hand to cross the street. He picks out the most expensive menu option – a weird looking banana sundae monstrosity that seems to have at least nine different ice cream flavors – just to see Mr Wayne react, but he barely blinks at the order. _Rich creep_ , Jason concludes, grim, stuffing the last of the chili dog in his mouth and watching Bruce order mint chocolate chip with maple syrup and freeze dried raspberry flakes for himself. 

Fifteen minutes later, they’re sitting across from each other at a booth, and Mr Wayne’s ice cream – he got a cone, Jason’s order only came in bowls – is dribbling down his arm, staining his white button down green, but Mr Wayne doesn’t seem to have noticed, or maybe he doesn’t care because he can afford to buy a new shirt later.

“Did you just bite into the ice cream?” Mr Wayne asks, and Jason takes an even bigger bite just to watch him wince. “That’s – it’s cold, Jason.”

“It’s ice cream,” Jason says, then, “Mr Wayne?”

“Call me Bruce. What is it?”

“Why do you want to adopt me?” 

Mr Wayne smiles. He’d been wearing a warm, kind smile since he picked Jason up from the center an hour ago, but it’s a little different, this time: a little more raw and anxious and hopeful. Jason has no idea what to do with it so he only scowls back in response.

He says, “You seem like a great kid, and – you remind me of myself, a little bit.”

  
  
  


Fact: Jason is eight years old and will turn nine in a month and two weeks.

Fact: Jason’s mom died a month and eleven days ago.

Fact: Jason’s dad lost custody of him a month and two days ago.

Opinion: Bruce Wayne wants to adopt him for either something nefarious or a publicity stunt. Watching the man smile, pained but kind, at the sight of Jason chewing ice cream, Jason’s inclined towards the former.

  
  
  


2.

A week after Jason watched Mr Wayne ruin a perfectly good shirt by not letting his cream melt, Jason has all his things packed in a slick, neon green suitcase Mr Wayne got him and a new name: Jason Peter Todd-Wayne.

Ms Johnson hisses, “Behave,” and adjusts his shirt. “Wayne will throw you back here for misbehavior and I _do not_ want to see you again.” Then she pulls him into a short hug before readjusting his shirt again.

Jason’s tempted to hate the manor and Bruce Wayne both, when he steps inside and sees, one, how _big_ it is – cavernous, vast and immense, all words from the last spelling test of the year that he had aced and his mom had hugged him for, for the very last time, ever – and two, how it bleeds with a ridiculous amount of wealth, from the oil portraits of Wayne ancestors with frames gilded with gold to the room Mr Wayne says is his being double the size of his old home to Mr Wayne having a _butler_ who called Jason “Master Jason” when Jason first saw him. It’s so cold and lonely and unfriendly and Jason’s half-afraid that Mr Wayne _is_ a vampire, adopting him with the sole purpose of sucking his blood dry and then eating his corpse or whatever vampires do, but.

“And this is the library,” Mr Wayne says, leading Jason into a room that seems to be pulled straight from _Beauty and the Beast_ , with achingly tall bookshelves crammed with books and wood ladders attached to them and puffy, expensive looking couches carefully placed around the room. 

“How many books do you _have_?” Jason asks, craning his neck, spinning to take in the room. “Have you read them all, Mr Wayne?”

“You can call me Bruce, Jason.”

“Bruce,” Jason says. “Have you?”

“No, not yet.”

“I’m going to read all of them,” Jason declares, and Bruce smiles at him, that anxiously warm one from the ice cream store. “What?”

“Nothing. Come on, the tour’s not over.”

  
  
  


Four days into living at Wayne Manor, Bruce hosts a gala.

“It’s been planned for months,” he explains to Jason over breakfast, after Mr Pennyworth had left the room. “You’re required to be there, but you can leave after a few hours, okay?”

Jason scowls at Bruce, as meanly as he can while shoveling raspberry porridge in his mouth. “What do you mean, required,” he says, spraying porridge as he does.

“Eat with your mouth closed and swallow before speaking, Jason,” Bruce says, gentle. He leans forward, napkin in hand, but Jason grabs the napkin before Bruce can wipe his face for him as if Jason were a _baby_. In the four days Jason has been here, Bruce has alternated between hovering and spoiling, the former more common than the latter, and Jason’s more than a little tired of it, and the only reason Jason hasn’t snapped at Bruce for it is because he’s not keen on seeing Ms Johnson again, either.

Jason wipes his mouth and sets his spoon down, but doesn’t let it out of his grip. “What do you mean I’m required to be there.”

“You’re my son.”

“Not really. Adopted.”

Something flashes across Bruce’s face, but it’s too fast for Jason to decipher. “Jason, you’re part of the family legally and in every other sense. You don’t have to call me dad or anything, but –”

“Can you explain the required part,” Jason interrupts, and Bruce’s eyebrow twitches, but Jason really doesn’t want to listen to him.

Jason still has his dad. He’s rotting away in prison and maybe Jason’s happier about that than he cares to admit, but he still has a dad, he can’t just forget him and mom and move on. He pictures his mom stepping in Wayne Manor, then furiously blocks out the image because it’s not fair and thinking like that wouldn’t do anything.

Bruce says, “You’re required to be there because you’re my son and heir, and it looks strange if my son isn’t at the gala that I’m hosting.”

“Is it _really_. Maybe I’m sick?” Then, “Are you serious? Your _heir_?” He tries to match the word to some familiar context and envisions princes at crowning ceremonies. “You didn’t tell me this before.”

“Jason,” Bruce says, and Jason shoves porridge in his mouth because he doesn’t know what else to do. He hates how Bruce says his name, with obnoxious softness. “That’s not important. You just need to be there, okay? Only for a little while. You’re my son and –”

“Adopted. Adopted son, Bruce.”

“Adopted son,” Bruce allows. “Okay?”

“I don’t want to go to your stupid gala, I don’t want to talk to your stupid rich people friends, I don’t want to be your heir, I don’t want any of this, Bruce, I don’t, I don’t.” 

It’s quiet. Jason sniffs. He misses the porridge his mom used to make him, with rainbow dinosaur eggs that hatched into sugary lumps when microwaved. In the sunlight, the raspberry porridge is a disgusting shade of pink. Jason has never wanted so badly to curl up and hide in his room, but he doesn’t have his room or home or parents or anything anymore, so he stays still, feet hanging from the chair, picturing Ms Johnson glaring at him when she sees him again in a few hours, probably, _why didn’t you behave, Jason_. He doesn’t look at Bruce.

When Bruce finally speaks after what Jason thinks is three minutes, his tone is carefully neutral. “Event planners should be here in about twenty minutes to set up, try to stay out of their way. Alfred will help you dress up before the gala. You won’t have to stay long, just an hour, maybe less. I won’t make you talk to anyone. Okay, Jason?”

“Are you going to send me back?”

“Back where?” Bruce’s patience is half infuriating, half a comfort.

“To the center. The orphanage.”

“No, Jason. I’m not sending you back, you’re family, okay?”

“I’m not.”

“Legally, Jason, okay? Legally.”

“Okay. Okay, Bruce.”

  
  
  


Jason knows the gala is a test.

He’s knows: the tabloids murmuring about Bruce Wayne adopting Gotham gutter trash, the memories of Tommy and Regina and Georgia and every other kid at the orphanage telling him this is a major publicity stunt from Wayne Enterprises, the judgement that radiates from Mr Pennyworth whenever he opens his mouth or uses the wrong fork or asks the wrong question, the wariness Bruce has around him, his clear clumsiness, cluelessness – he thinks Jason is a feral street child and the gala is his way of confirming that so he chuck Jason back to the orphanage.

He wishes, viciously, that he never stole Batman’s tires. That he zigzagged and ran circles a little longer so Batman didn’t find him tucking his dead mom into bed while he kicked the hubcaps under the bed. That his dad hadn’t left him at home and lost custody. The his dad had challenged that loss and that he came back for Jason, tried to get back custody – not that Jason really wants that, but the fact that his dad didn’t even try leaves him hollow.

This gala is a test and Bruce is going to send him back and he’s going to get shuffled from foster home to foster home, while Ms Johnson clicks her tongue and shakes her head, _Jason, why don’t you just behave_ – 

Jason locks the door of the room Bruce says is his and dives into the bed Bruce says is his, curls around the blankets that Bruce says are his – Mr Pennyworth had made the bed, probably during the time Jason was eating was breakfast, but Jason took the military precision with which Mr Pennyworth had done corners and folds and ruined it all. He imagines Mr Pennyworth’s carefully concealed disapproval and kind words and takes a shaky breath.

He wants – he wants home. He’s not getting it. Batman made sure of it. Bruce is giving him another chance, isn’t he, and Jason wants, just wants to not mess this up, he wants to stay, he doesn’t know if he wants Bruce as his dad but Bruce isn’t too bad and the gala is clearly important to him and he wants Jason there and if Jason fucks this all up he’ll be on the tabloids and Bruce will be disappointed and –

Jason reaches out, fumbles for the book on his nightstand: _Pride and Prejudice_ , selected from Bruce’s library – maybe that moment, when he first stepped in, was when he started wanting this lonely manor to become home – with the intention of showing something to Bruce or something, he’s not sure. Bruce had smiled at him when he saw the book last night, when he came to check in on Jason, and Mr Pennyworth, when he saw Jason taking the book to his room, had said Jason made “a fine choice,” which, cool, he supposes.

Jason forces himself to simplify: He wants to fit in here, into Bruce’s life. He doesn’t want to go back to the orphanage. He’s not getting mom back and dad doesn’t want him. Bruce doesn’t know what he’s doing and might regret things but for now, he wants Jason, and maybe that’s enough.

  
  
  


Two minutes into the gala, Jason comes to the conclusion that he fucking _hates_ them. 

He can’t recognize Wayne Manor. The event planners came and made it even grander and sparkly and wider and mom wouldn’t believe it, if she were here. Jason stands under the glittering chandelier, staring up at it until he has to blink away light spots, and tries to picture his mom as one of the guests here, dressed in expensive looking clothes with crisply clicking heels and delicate gold jewelry.

He can’t. He really can’t, and he hates it.

Bruce has kept a hand on his shoulder since Mr Pennyworth gently pushed him in Bruce’s waiting arms. Jason, for once, doesn’t squirm away, and Bruce keeps his touch light and gentle as he steers him around, stopping around people for small talk before flittering off elsewhere. Jason’s doesn’t talk much beyond _hello_ and _It’s nice to meet you too_ and _My name is Jason_ and _Yes, it’s okay here_. 

“What’s this gala for,” Jason whispers, after listening to Bruce talk to a man wearing a deep red suit about dolphins and flowers, which Jason thinks don’t pair together naturally.

“Hm?” Bruce looks down at him. He’s smiling and holding a wine glass, but the smile is strained and Jason doesn’t think Bruce has drank the wine at all.

“What’s this gala for,” Jason repeats, louder.

“It’s a fundraiser,” Bruce says. “for a new aquarium and arboretum, midtown.”

“Arboretum?”

“It’s essentially a garden.”

“Oh.” Jason pictures dolphins swirling around underwater lilies. “Cool?”

Bruce’s smile widens into something more genuine. “We’ll go there together, chum.” He guides Jason closer to the table with the chocolate fountain – Jason is so, so tempted to stick his hand in it, but Bruce already told him not to, which. _Sucks_. “Just one more person, and then you can head up to your room, Jason,” Bruce says, and he’s talking to this last person before Jason can respond: “Nice to see you again, Selina.”

Selina is wearing a twinkling navy dress and heavy-looking gold bracelets. “Of course, Bruce,” she says, and Jason’s startled by her voice: rough and snappy and normal, like him, like regular Gotham. “And you must be Jason,” she’s saying, and her smile, smooth and genuine and normal, makes Jason smile back instead of just scowling (politely) like he has been all night. “Are you having fun, Jason?”

“No,” Jason says, honestly, before Bruce can stop him, and Selina laughs even as Bruce sighs, exasperated – but Bruce doesn’t seem _upset_ , so whatever, really. “It’s so stuffy.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Selina’s amused. 

“They talk weird.”

“That’s just how socialites are. Not fun, is it?”

“No. Bruce says I can leave after I talk to you, though.”

“Did he? Lucky you, I’m still stuck here.”

Bruce clears his throat. “Jason, you’re free to go if you want. I have to talk to someone, Selina, can you –”

“He’s safe with me,” Selina says, cheerfully, and Bruce squeezes Jason’s shoulder once before taking off with a loud laugh, slinging his arm around the same guy from earlier, with the red suit and dolphins and flowers talk. “Going to head off now, Jason?”

“Can I stay with you?”

Selina laughs. “If you want, sure.”

“Cool, thanks.” Jason glances back at Bruce, who’s still talking to that guy. “I don’t think Bruce noticed.”

“Noticed what?”

“You took his watch,” Jason says, pointing to the silver strap, spilling out of Selina’s tiny gold coin purse. Selina pauses in the act of eating a chocolate coated strawberry. “I saw you. Don’t think he did, though.”

Selina gives him a long look of consideration, then laughs. “Good thing he had you, then,” she says with a snort, and pulls out the watch, clasps it around Jason’s wrist, tightening the strap so it doesn’t slip off. “Better?”

“I wasn’t planning on telling him,” Jason says, and Selina just shakes her head, laughing again.

  
  
  


Bruce checks on Jason after the gala, poking his head through Jason’s cracked door to see Jason still dressed (sans tie and jacket), wide awake and reading.

“You should sleep, Jay.” 

“In a minute,” Jason tells him, rubbing his eye with a fist. 

“Is that my watch you’re wearing?” 

“Oh. Yeah.” Bruce has a funny expression on his face, half amused and half dismayed. Jason’s too tired to analyze it. “I stole it. You didn’t notice.”

“Did you.”

“Uh huh. You should pay more attention, Bruce.”

  
  
  


“Can you teach me?” Jason asks, two days later, watching Mr Pennyworth dice up apples. “To make apple pie? Mr Pennyworth?”

“Certainly, Master Jason,” Mr Pennyworth says, and pauses the dicing to get Jason a stool, a crisp green Granny Smith apple, and a mini version of the knife he was using. “Hold still,” he says, hooking an apron over Jason’s head before Jason can do it himself, tying it quickly. It’s a smaller, brighter version of Mr Pennyworth’s own periwinkle apron.

“Thanks, Mr Pennyworth.”

“You are allowed to call me Alfred, Master Jason.”

“Master Alfred,” Jason says, and Alfred just smiles, soft and warm. “If you call me my name, I’ll call you yours.”

“We’ve reached an impasse, then, I’m afraid,” Alfred says, dry. “Have you peeled apples before?”

“No. What does that word mean?”

“Fix your grip, Master Jason. Which word?”

“Impasse. This better?”

“Much, mind your fingers. Impasse refers to a problem where no resolution can be reached because the parties involved can not negotiate a resolution.”

“This isn’t an impasse, we can negotiate,” Jason says, and Alfred just chuckles, and Jason takes this as a sign that maybe Alfred _doesn’t_ hate or judge him that much. Maybe Alfred is just old and British. 

Alfred teaches him how to slice apples thin and then layer them on top of the pie like a blooming rose, and the pie’s ready by the time Bruce walks in, home from work.

“Oh. Apple?” Bruce asks, twisting his tie.

“Apple pie,” Jason confirms. “I helped make it!”

“Did you?” Bruce smiles at him, and Jason smiles back, feeling warm. “It looks good.”

Maybe the manor can be home, like Bruce told him, Jason thinks, later, eating a slice of pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream while Bruce bickers with Alfred on if they can eat dessert before dinner or even skip dinner altogether and just pie. Maybe, just maybe.

  
  
  


Still – 

Jason has met Batman a grand total of four times, which was four times more than every kid at the center.

In those four times: Jason has saved Batman’s life two (2) times, Batman has saved Jason’s life one (1) time, Jason has tried to rob Batman one (1) time, Jason has made Batman laugh one (1) time, and Batman has seen Jason cry one (1) time. 

Cause: Jason expected to see him again after being adopted. It just made sense.

  
  
  


Effect:

After dessert (Bruce lost the fight to just apple pie but Jason won anyway because he got a slice before dinner anyway), Jason sneaks out of the manor.

He wants to say he sneaks out with a plan, but there really isn’t: he’s going to go back to Crime Alley and maybe he’ll see Batman, maybe he’ll just glance at his (old?) home and see if it got sold, and then he’ll come back here. Maybe. 

He feels a flare of guilt when the window snaps shut behind him and no alarms or Alfred show up to stop him, but it’s fine, it’s fine. 

Wayne Manor is at the edge of Gotham just like creepy vampire lairs in cartoons are, but getting to Crime Alley isn’t that hard once Jason gets past the gates. A twenty minute walk later, Jason is contemplating climbing up the fire escape attached to his (old? _old_?) apartment building when Batman shows up.

“Jason,” he says, and Jason does _not_ jump. He turns and sees Batman behind him, arms crossed, mouth a thin line. Jason crosses his arms back and scowls at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m taking a walk. How do you know my name? I never told you.”

Batman doesn’t answer that. “It’s a long way from home, for a walk.”

“How would _you_ know.”

Batman doesn’t answer that, either. “I’ll take you home.”

Technically, half of Jason’s to do list is done. “Just a minute,” Jason says, and starts climbing up the fire escape.

“Jason, get down from there.”

“A _minute_ , Batman!”

It’s not a long climb: Jason’s (old) home was on the fourth floor, third window down the right, and Jason presses his face against the window, peers inside what used to be his room. It’s empty, cleared of all his old posters and forgotten socks, but no one has moved in yet. 

“There are germs on the glass, Jason,” Batman says, and Jason’s barely surprised that Batman’s next to him, now dangling from the roof. “Don’t press your face against it.”

Jason just presses his face in more before moving away. “Okay. I’m done now.”

“Are you sure?”

Jason isn’t. He just knows his old home looks cold and unfriendly now. His mom and dad aren’t there and Jason can’t do anything about that. “Yeah.”

Batman says, “Hold still,” and then he has an arm snaked around Jason, pulling him off of the fire escape, and then Batman lowers him to the ground like a bizarre elevator. 

“Okay,” Jason says, rubbing his face with his sleeve – Jason threw one of his old black hoodies over his new red pajamas before sneaking out, and he doesn’t really care about getting the hoodie dirty. “I’ll go back now, bye Batman.”

“I’m taking you back,” Batman says, and Jason scowls at him.

“Hard pass. I’m fine alone.”

“Jason –” There’s a scream, somewhere close by, and Batman tenses. “Stay here, do _not_ move until I come back.”

“Sure,” Jason shrugs, then waits only a minute for Batman to run off before following him because the last time Jason saw him, Batman would have got hit in the head if Jason hadn’t stepped in.

It’s not hard to find Batman again: he’s at the back of an alley, a little away, locked in a fight with three drug dealers – Jason knows because he recognizes them, his mom used to buy from them – while a tube light flickers and sways uncertainly above them.

He watches: Batman punches out one guy, kicks another, and the third –

Jason picks up a discarded pizza box and hurls it at the third guy before he can land a punch on Batman, and the guy sputters and stumbles back, long enough for Batman to knock down both him and the other guy with a series of swift punches.

“Nice punch, Batman!” Jason says, cheered, running over once it’s clear all three drug dealers aren’t getting up. 

Batman glares at him. Jason refuses to flinch. “I told you stay there.”

“You needed help!”

“I did not,” Batman hisses, and taps his cowl, clearly irritated. “Come. I’ll take you home.”

“What about other crime?”

“Jason. Come with me.”

Jason grumbles but follows Batman to his car, the one that Jason tried to rob months ago and that must have showed up to the alley while Jason had his back turned. He entertains running off, but Batman is behind him and Jason’s curious about what his car is like, so Jason climbs inside without protest.

“Where are you going to take me?”

“Home.”

“Which is?”

Batman doesn’t answer. Jason stares at him, debates jumping out, but the car is nauseatingly fast and Jason doesn’t know how to open the door.

There’s something about Batman’s jaw and the way he’s suddenly saying Jason’s name and his overall attitude that doesn’t click until Wayne Manor comes into view. Jason asks, “Bruce?” and watches Batman’s impassive reaction. “It _is_ you,” Jason says, not entirely sure, still, but Batman sighs, and Jason’s suddenly confident. “Bruce!”

“Jason,” Bruce says, weary. Jason’s divided with glee and understanding and –

“You’re so _weird_ , Bruce,” Jason says, and Bruce just sighs again. 

  
  
  


Four hours later, at breakfast (Bruce and Alfred kept trying, unsuccessfully, to get Jason to sleep, but how was Jason supposed to sleeve when Batman’s super secret cave was not only underneath his room but also actually property of _Bruce_ because _Bruce was Batman_ , and Alfred eventually just announced an early breakfast), Jason thinks it over. 

Bruce Wayne is Batman and Bruce Wayne adopted him and he had helped Batman in a grand total of three fights and offered him comic relief that one time, ergo —

“Hey, Bruce,” Jason starts. Bruce has a bruise that’s been blooming into a steady purple on his jaw for the past few hours, and his lips twitch when he glances at Jason, fighting a smile. Any chance of a smile immediately falls when Jason says: “Can I go out with Batman every night?”

  
  
  


“You _need_ a partner,” Jason says, twenty minutes later, breakfast forgotten in front of him. “C’mon, Bruce, I’ve helped you before –”

“That,” Bruce starts, then stops. 

“ _And_ I know Gotham better than you,” Jason says. “You sound too posh. Gothamites don’t trust you.”

Bruce looks offended. “My accent is _fine_.”

His accent is fine. Jason didn’t pick out Batman as _not_ a Gotham native (as in, like Jason and Selina) until their third run in. “It could use some work, Bruce, and _I_ can help with that.”

“Jason,” Bruce says, stern. “No.”

“Why else did you adopt me,” Jason says, trying to be reasonable, but Bruce gives him an almost disappointed frown.

“I adopted you because I wanted you to be family and have a home, Jason, I know you –”

“Okay, sure,” Jason says, hastily cutting him off, ignoring how the words make him feel mostly warm instead of mostly guilty this time. “I’ll – I’ll sneak out and help you anyway, even if you say no.”

“No,” Bruce says, expression pinched: they both know Jason would. 

“C’mon, Bruce,” Jason wheedles, and Bruce sighs. 

  
  
  


3.

Jason never settles on a permanent name, and Bruce never pushes him to, and Jason knows the reason for that is Bruce hoping Jason grows bored and abandons this gig, but Jason doesn’t really care because identity making is _fun_ , image and costume making is _fun_ , and he’s picturing the papers struggling to connect and keep up every name and snickering.

  
  
  


“Batman,” Commissioner James Gordon says. “why is there a child with you?”

“‘M not a child,” Jason says, rankled. “I’m –”

“Yes, Robin, I know,” Gordon says, impatient. “Batman, an explanation?”

Bruce’s voice is cool and severe through the modulator. “He’s my partner, Commissioner.”

“A child?”

“ _Not_ a child –”

“He’s my partner,” Batman repeats, with an air of finality, and Gordon stares at Batman for a long moment, expression unreadable, before sighing and throwing up his arms. 

“Fine, here are your files, now go. Robin,” Gordon hesitates, and Jason waits, grinning at him just as he practiced in the mirror: smooth, easy confidence that inspires trust and hope. “Be careful.”

It’s not the ringing endorsement Jason wanted, but he manages to keep his grin from faltering.

  
  
  


Jason goes through a total of five different names during the first three months: Robin, then Blackbird, then Bluejay, then Nightbird, then Sparrow. 

Alfred asks, one night, “Is there a reason for the bird theme, Master Jason?” 

“No,” Jason says, cheerful. “They just seem friendlier than bats. I’m trying to make Batman more approachable, Alfred, he’s kind of scary at first.”

“I believe he does that on purpose,” Alfred says, amused.

The papers go back and forth on if Robin and Bluejay and whatever are all the same person or not – some just refer to him as Batman’s sidekick, Batman’s partner, Batman’s whatever, and it doesn’t make for neat and catchy headlines, but it’s fine, it’s cool.

  
  
  


Bruce trains Jason to fight but out in practice, on the field, he usually sends Jason out to handle the victims, and Jason would be more upset about it if he hadn’t known, from experience, that Batman was more intimidating than comforting. 

“Hey,” Jason says, soothing, plucking a green, Hello Kitty-themed bandaid (gift from Selina) from his toolkit with a flourish. “You’re going to be just fine. Look, you’re not even bleeding.”

The boy sniffs, rubs at his eyes while Jason disinfects the cut on his knee and applies the bandaid. “Mom?” He asks, as Jason smoothes out the bandaid. His voice is wobbly and hoarse, but less shaky than he had been when Jason found him five minutes ago.

“Batman’s got her,” Jason says, and someone screams from the other room. The boy flinches. “She’s okay,” Jason stresses. “You trust Batman, don’t you?” and the boy finally nods.

“Who are you?”

“Me? I’m Blackbird, for now.” Jason had picked up the older costume by mistake, rushing to get his Spanish homework done first. “What’s your name?”

“Alex. Alex, um, Jeong.”

“You’re doing great, Alex.” Jason glances at the door. “Listen, I’m going to check on Batman and your mom, okay? I’ll come back with both of them very soon.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Jason confirms, and dashes off, getting to the next room in time to pull Alex’s mom out from behind a sofa and knock one of the robbers out with a batarang before they can land a punch on Batman.

  
  
  


Jason first meets Talia al Ghul three days into testing out his Redbird moniker.

The costume’s sick, for sure. Redbird doesn’t roll off too nice on his tongue, but Alfred took Jason’s carefully curated moodboard (consisting of several red paint chips lifted from Home Depot, magazine cut outs of varying historical pirate ships and some high brow pretentious Victorian drama, plus some dandelions from the school parking lot he stuffed in his bag and didn’t give to Bruce because that was for _mom_ ) and made a sleek, Hamlet-esque costume that has sparkles. Jason adores it even as Bruce looked at the glittery heels with vague annoyance. 

So the costume is nice and even though the name could use some time, Jason thinks he could really grow into it, but the minute an assassin swipes at his stomach, tearing fabric and a hint of flesh, he knows Redbird is dead.

“Huh,” Jason says, as the assassin moves to try again. He does a neat backflip before the sword lands again. “Nice try, but you missed, sucker.” Another backflip, with a kick to the jaw, and then Jason’s holding the warm sword in his hand.

He doesn’t get to admire it. “Redbird!” Batman snaps, and Jason diligently moves to stand next to him, dropping the sword as he goes. They took out all the assassins, and the room is a weird quiet, that quiet in the aftermath of a fight when it’s sweaty and the tension is starting to bleed out while adrenaline runs high and the echo of grunting and yelling is still there, in a loopy ringtone.

“They didn’t stand a chance against us, huh, Batman?” Jason tries saying, light and easy, but then someone else walks from the long shadows of the room like a vampire — she’s tall and elegant and all Jason can think is that she looks like a dangerous sepia photo, which is a dumb weird description he might be able to pull off for his school’s upcoming poetry contest. Maybe.

Batman has a hand on Jason’s shoulder as Jason’s midway to a fighting stance. “Talia,” Batman says, voice high and cold, his socialite accent coming out crisply and Jason raises his eyebrows behind the domino mask because not only is that a name, Bruce never breaks cover like that. He’s explained it — Bruce Wayne and Gotham’s Bat are two completely separate people with completely different demeanors. 

“Beloved,” The woman — Talia, Jason deduces, putting his detective skills to use, take that, Bruce — says, and there’s something soft and warm in her voice like slow-burning coal. She’s been staring at Batman, but her gaze shifts onto Jason, suddenly, and he refuses to squirm. “And?”

The grip on Jason’s shoulder tightens, once. “Redbird.” he says, going for the same tone as Bruce.

Talia stares at him, thoughtful, then she turns back to Bruce. “Your son is lovely. He’s not like you.”

“What do you want,” Batman grits out, while Jason just stares. “This is my city —“

“I am allowed to be concerned, Beloved.” Talia says, smoothly. “I am just here to see how you were doing.”

“You have seen. Now go, and don’t come back.”

Talia tilts her head. “Take care,” she says, soft. “You are doing much better.”

And then she’s gone, the assassins rising and following her out. They take their fallen swords with them.

“Huh.” Jason watches the door close behind them. “So, um, what was —“

“We’ll talk later, chum,” Batman says, in a tone that says _do not ask me about this_ and then Batman is zooming off and Jason has to scramble to follow.

  
  
  


Despite Jason’s best efforts, they do not talk about Talia.

  
  
  


“Hello to you, too, Robin,” Gordon says, looking absolutely exhausted.

“It’s Redbird now. I haven’t been Robin in years, Commissioner.”

“Right, of course. Okay, Robin –”

“Redbird!”

  
  
  


It’s magical, it’s addicting, it’s fun and Jason loves every minute of it, loves making people smile and feel safe and making Gotham clean and reducing crime rates and it’s just _good_ , it’s a good feeling, swinging out every night with Batman and delivering justice with fists and batarangs.

And like all magic and good things, it ends before Jason realizes it.

  
  
  


4.

Jason meets Cass in the aftermath of a bank robbery, when she takes a bullet for him.

Jason’s Bluejay (again, after a near four year hiatus), this week, and this is a particularly well organized bank robbery and Batman had left Jason to straggle out civilians while he dealt with the main thugs inside, and Jason had been doing just that, when he ran behind an alley to check for people and got a gun shoved in his face.

“Out of the way,” the guy holding the gun snarls, and Jason ducks just as he pulls the trigger.

Jason says, “It’s rude to shoot people without knowing them, y’know,” and kicks the guy’s knees, but he only stumbles back instead of falling. Unfortunate.

Then there’s another guy, another gun going off, and Jason hisses as he barely manages to duck in time. “You missed! Again!” he yells, rolling away before another, different bullet could hit him. “You should practice more!”

Jason throws a batarang at one gun, nicking the barrel, and detonates a smoke bomb when that guy pauses, uses the smoke to knock away the gun and the guy out with a few punches. 

The second gun –

Jason hears the gunshot, but before he can move he’s being shoved away, and then the other guy is yelling _hey!_ and Jason scrambles to his feet, dust clearing in time to see the other guy unconscious with a bloody nose, and a girl with her hands in fists standing above him. 

Jason swallows, then chooses to gloss over this. “Hey, thanks, nice punch!” The girl glances at him, then steps back from the unconscious guy, but she doesn’t leave the alley, so Jason feels safe turning around and cleaning up the scene for Gordon.

“Hey,” Jason says, after a minute, glancing back over to the girl that saved his life as he handcuffs the criminals. Then he does a double take because she’s bleeding. “You got shot,” he says, dumbly, and when the girl tenses, blood dripping and oozing from her upper right arm, staining her pale blue tee shirt an ugly red-brown, he immediately follows it up with, “Let me, let me bandage you – I have bandages, and, uh, a lollipop,” and he immediately feels stupid for tacking on the bit about the lollipop, but the girl lights up and stays, so.

Bruce lets him pack a maximum of five Dum Dums in his toolkit. He shows the girl all five flavors – lemon, butterscotch, blue raspberry, root beer, and a mystery white – and lets her pick the mystery flavor while he takes the blue raspberry. “Cool choice,” Jason says, bright, unwrapping his own lollipop and sticking it in his mouth immediately. The girl unwraps hers at a much slower pace. “Looks like a graze, which is good. Is it alright if I cut off your sleeve?” he asks, and the girl hesitates, then shrugs. “You don’t talk much,” Jason comments, because post-fight adrenaline usually leaves him with no brain-to-mouth filter, and the girl just looks at him, face blank. “It’s fine, it’s cool, don’t worry, I’m usually not that talkative, either, but, y’know, not everyday that you get shot at with _two_ guns instead of like, just one, y’know –”

Jason rambles to fill the silence and to ignore the ringing in his ears, not entirely sure if the girl is listening or understanding, but she’s eating the lollipop – literally chewing and breaking it off in easy, hard chomps, and Jason’s in awe – and he’s just smoothing out the bandage when his comm stutters out static.

“Jay, inside, left entrance,” Batman says, and the comm crackles shut. 

“Gotta go,” Jason tells the girl, who’s chewing on her empty lollipop stick, now. “Take care, great to meet you!” he yells over his shoulder as he runs, chomping down on his lollipop and eating it before he reaches Batman, but Bruce sees Jason’s blue tongue and scolds him when they get home anyway.

  
  
  


“Hey,” Jason says, perking up when he sees the girl again. “It’s you again! I’m Redbird this week,” he adds, in case she’s confused by the costume.

She nods at him, and Jason turns away to handcuff the last unconscious criminal to the gutter, sending an _all good, Batman_ through the comms as he does. When he’s finished, he turns around and sees the girl is still there, perched on top of a garbage bin, watching him.

Jason refuses to be unnerved. “How’s your shoulder?” he asks, and the girl shrugs at him, he shrugs back. “Are you hungry? There’s a bakery nearby that’s open late and has really good mango buns.” The girl just shrugs again, but she jumps off the bin and follows him as he leaves. 

“So,” Jason tries, as they walk. “What’s your name?” She blinks, uncomprehending. “You don’t have to tell me, it’s fine.”

It’s either a quiet night or Batman is busy brooding. Jason pays for two mango buns with a grin flashed towards the flustered cashier, hurrying out before Batman can swoop down and scold him for risking their identities by buying food, and he makes it outside without anything happening. 

“Here,” he says, giving one of the brown-paper wrapped buns to the girl. She hadn’t followed him inside. She takes the bun gingerly. “It’s really good, promise. I’m gonna go find Batman, ‘kay?” The girl nods, focused on unwrapping the bun, her movements slow and careful. Jason nods back, then rushes away.

  
  
  


“Hey,” Jason says, the third time he sees her. “You always find me after a fight, huh,” he says, kicking a guy in the head when he groans. The girl just watches him, impassive, standing next to the fire escape. “Your shoulder okay?” he asks, tapping his own right shoulder, and girl mirrors the motion with what is either a smile or a wince. Jason chooses the former, mostly because his comm is buzzing with Batman’s orders. “I’m going,” he says, both to Batman and the girl, and he runs off with a wave that she returns. 

  
  
  


The fourth time, Jason’s walking around Wayne Manor, exploring the property and avoiding Bruce (he had asked _why didn’t you tell me about the play you were performing in_ over breakfast and Jason had ducked out the room because he didn’t have any reason beyond _I wasn’t sure if you wanted to come or cared to_ which, he knew without checking with Bruce, was stupid) when a body falls from from a tree close to the gate.

Jason bites his tongue before he can scream, and the body moves, raising itself up into a sitting position, and Jason’s running through the possibilities of mummies attacking Bruce Wayne for tax purposes or whatever, but then the head shifts and Jason sees the face.

“It’s _you_ ,” he says, incredulous, forgetting about _Jason this is a secret identity do not talk to anyone about it_ until the words are out, but before he can panic the girl’s hands slip and she falls onto the grass with a thud, and then Jason sees the blood on her shoulder, where she had taken a bullet for Jason _weeks_ ago. “Are you okay?” he asks, uselessly, running next to her. The wound is fresh – it’s not a reopened wound from the bullet, but it’s a wound and she’s losing blood fast. He can’t tell if the girl looks afraid or is just in shock, her face chalky and blank. “Hey, it’s okay, I got – I’ll help, don’t worry.”

It takes a minute, but he picks the girl up and carries her, walking instead of running because he’s scared of tipping over (training with Bruce didn’t cover carrying adult-sized people, just babies and toddlers). The girl is gasping, and a minute into the walk, Jason realizes she’s trying to say something, “Cass, Cass. _Cass_.”

“Cass,” Jason echoes. “Is that your name?” She nods once. “Cool name. You’re going to be okay, Cass,” he says, in his best Nightbird – Jason had switched back to it last night – voice: soothing and warm like a security blanket.

Alfred pulls the door open before Jason can knock.

“Master Jason, what –”

“She’s hurt, Alfred, _help_ ,” Jason says, and Alfred only blinks once before taking Cass from his arms and hurriedly dashing off. “Her name is Cass,” he shouts, running after Alfred. “She’s Cass and she took a bullet for me weeks ago and now she’s hurt again, Alf, I don’t know what happened –”

“Breathe, Master Jason,” Alfred instructs sharply, gently placing Cass on a couch in the sitting room. “Stay here while I get the first aid kit.”

Jason nods, watches blood from Cass’s shoulder seep into the tan couch like a slow-blooming flower. “Hey, um, hold still, you’re going to be –”

“What’s going on?” Jason looks up to see Bruce standing next to him. Why didn’t Jason notice him coming in, he _should_ have – “Jason, talk to me,” Bruce says, and it’s only because he says in the same tone as _status report, Jay_ that Jason responds.

“Her name is Cass,” Jason says, and Cass is looking at him, expression closed off, and Jason wonders if she had liked the mango bun. “She took a bullet for me during that bank robbery from weeks ago. I was walking and she fell out of a tree just now and I grabbed her and, uh, we’re here.”

“Step back, Master Jason,” Alfred is saying, so Jason does, just as Bruce’s hand curls over his shoulder. Jason doesn’t shake him off. 

  
  
  


An hour and a half later, they’ve all moved into the cave, at Bruce’s suggestion when Cass had pointed to Bruce, mumbled _bat_ , and promptly fell unconscious. “I didn’t tell her anything,” Jason tells Bruce, anxiously watching Cass’s vitals hover at unsteady levels. “I really didn’t, B, I don’t know how she got here or how she knows.”

“I believe you,” Bruce says, grim, his fingers flying across the keyboard of the main computer. “It seems like she was stabbed with a knife. Poisoned, it looks like.”

There’s a lot to unpack, there. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Let’s hope, Master Jason,” Alfred says, which isn’t promising at all.

  
  


  
Batman leaves for patrol alone – Jason had already decided he would skip out on patrol to finish a paper for Robotics, and then Cass came and it just felt wrong, to leave her alone in the cave, even if Alfred was still there.

Batman returns three hours after he leaves, and watches, wary and almost sleepy as the car parks. Cass’s vitals have improved since Jason found the antidote and Alfred administered it, but she’s still sleeping and Alfred left to get snacks a few minutes before.

Then Batman comes out and slams the car’s door shut, and Jason’s wide awake.

“You okay, B?” Jason asks, as Batman steps – _stomps_ forward, heading to the computer without pausing to take anything off. “B? Batman? Bruce?”

“Cassandra Cain.”

Jason glances back at Cass: still asleep, eyebrows furrowed. “Is that Cass’s full name?”

Bruce jerks out a nod, and doesn’t answer any of Jason’s other questions.

  
  
  


Cass wakes up three days later – three days in which Jason failed the Robotics paper he didn’t complete the day Cass had come, and Bruce had refused to give more details about Cass beyond her name.

“I thought we were partners,” Jason had said, gloomy and spiteful.

“You can ask her yourself,” Bruce had said, dismissive, and ignored Jason’s annoyed groan.

When Cass finally wakes up, it’s when Jason is upstairs grabbing his backpack, and he steps down into the cave in time to hear Bruce tell Cass, solemn, “– I trust you, I promise, and nothing about your past changes how I view you.” 

Jason wants to ask _what the fuck does that mean_ but it would be rude to ask and when he gets close, Cass pulls him into a tight hug, and it’s just not a good time.

  
  
  


Bruce tells Jason he’s adopting Cass the next day.

“I’ve already discussed this with her,” he tells Jason, and Jason’s momentarily stung that Bruce talking Cass before talking to Jason, but it wouldn’t have made sense the other way around, would it. “She needs a place to stay. A home. Like you, in a way. She won’t be enrolled in school with you, but she will be your sister –”

“Are you going to explain to me who she is?”

Bruce grimaces. “It’s for her to tell you herself, Jason,” and Jason’s torn between understanding and annoyance. 

They’re in the library, because Bruce asked to talk here, and Cass is in the dining room with Alfred eating the last of Jason’s favorite broccoli-cheddar soup – she eats just like Jason used to, when he just got to the manor: ravenously, at an almost savage pace, barely chewing before swallowing and barely swallowing before chewing the next bite, and it’s fascinating to watch in the worst way, because the way Alfred and Bruce used to hover and portion and time his meals and mealtimes suddenly makes sense.

Jason thinks it over. “Are you going to let her patrol with us?” Cass _did_ know how to fight. Jason’s assuming.

Bruce frowns. “We’ll figure that out later.”

“So yes.”

“Later, Jay.”

“Sure, whatever.” Jason shrugs, and Bruce visibly relaxes. “I get a sister.” 

“She’s older than you by a few months.”

“So you can tell me _that_ but not any other basic info.”

  
  
  


Jason is trying very hard to be positive: the girl he kept buying food for now had a home and a family. Sure, maybe that home and family was also _his_ and Jason never realized how territorial and insecure he was about that until Bruce started devoting an hour of his day just trying to teach her to read and talk and he had less time and energy for Jason now, but – positives, there was one less hungry kid on the streets. 

Jason is trying. He lets Cass call him little brother after an unsuccessful campaign to get her to recognize him as the older one, takes Cass on walks around the city and reads all the signs and menus for her, binge eats chili dogs and ice cream and french fries with Cass using Bruce’s credit cards while flipping off any reporters trying to take pictures of them (Bruce adopting Cass caused a _stir_ ), helps Cass decorate and paint her room with cute peachy shades and copious amounts of glitter, and he’s _trying_ , very hard, to help Bruce reach his vision of a perfect little family or whatever, he’s trying.

And then Bruce takes him down to the cave after dinner one night and says that he wants Jason to help Cass train, because she asked about going on patrol with Batman just as Jason had expected and Bruce had told her sure, you can do that, you just need to train and pick a name and costume –

“Wait,” Jason says, feeling very small. This is going to fast. Bruce pauses, face carefully smooth and blank. “You’re just – replacing me?”

Bruce’s eyes go wide and Jason gets a sick satisfaction from the horror in them. “No, chum, of course not.”

“You’re letting her train and pick a name.”

“She wants to, Jay, this isn’t about replacing you.”

“I thought,” Jason starts, and swallows. “I thought I was your partner.” _I thought I was your son and partner and that one was enough for your and yeah I like Cass but_ –

“I can have two partners,” Bruce says.

“Oh,” Jason says. “Sure. Um. Excuse me,” he says, before he yells or punches or something equally stupid and Bruce gets all sad and disappointed, and all but runs upstairs.

Bruce doesn’t follow or stop him, and that’s maybe the worst confirmation Jason needs.

Cass is at the top of the stairs, and her brows furrow when she sees Jason, and she reaches out, as if to comfort, and Jason –

Jason still has no idea who she even _is_.

Jason snaps, “Leave me alone,” and she shrinks away as he slams the door of his room.

  
  
  


Two nights later, Orphan makes her vigilante debut.

“Do you have a list of names and costumes,” Jason says that night in the cave. “To change up every other week, like I do?”

Cass shakes her head no, radiating pure joy. Jason looks at Bruce, who isn’t facing them, but his lack of reaction says enough.

Jason’s hands curl into fists. Just one name, one costume, no rotating list of identities, just one stable and permanent partner –

“That’s cool,” Jason tells Cass, and it’s genuine. 

He doesn’t bother saying he’s happy for her because Cass and Bruce are lie detecting machines that Jason hates dealing with that kind of thing on a good day.

  
  
  


Technically, Jason could do what Bruce suggested and wait for Cass to tell him herself, and part of Jason wants to do that, wait for Cass to talk to him herself.

There’s another part of him that’s bitter and angry that Bruce didn’t tell him, because Jason thought _partners_ actually meant something.

So he begs off of patrol one night to work on his Spanish homework (“Hard,” Cass had commented before leaving, and Jason had nodded, grave and hoping she didn’t see through his plans) and logs onto the computer when Alfred leaves to get snacks.

Cass’s files aren’t hard to find: she’s Cassandra Cain, like Bruce told him. Daughter of David Cain and Sandra Woosan, or Lady Shiva. Affiliated with the League of Shadows. Trained to be Ra’s al Ghul’s personal bodyguard since birth. Killed a businessman at the age of eight. Sighted in Gotham at age thirteen.

There’s a video attached, and after a moment of hesitation, Jason clicks: it’s Cass, killing that businessman with her fists, eyes growing wide with horror and then running when it was over.

  
  
  


5.

Later, Jason isn’t sure when it starts, whether it was a nature or nurture kind of thing where either Bruce had plucked a bloodthirsty, violent and near suicidal kid from Gotham’s gutters all along or if Bruce had trained and sculpted and made him into that, and neither take was a comfort, but then again, nothing really was a comfort.

Jason just knows how it got worse and how he ended it.

  
  
  


Patrolling with Batman and Orphan instead of just Batman is a new experience. For one, Batman’s inclined to trust the two of them to patrol together as opposed to sticking close with him, and Jason’s torn between enjoying the increased independence and being bitter over spending less time as Batman’s partner.

Cass isn’t bad to patrol with: Jason’s glad, genuinely, that she’s his sister, he just feels sick remembering Bruce adopted her and spends more time with her than him, now, but Cass – Cass is great, and Jason doesn’t know if Cass knows that he saw the video, but Jason spends most of his time trying to forget it because he gets what Bruce was saying, that day, about trusting Cass despite her past and whatever, and Cass never talks about her past with Jason anyway.

Up until now, anyway.

  
  
  


Jason breaks the collarbone of some drug dealer and breaks the knees of some rapist and Cass has to pull him off some pedophile before Jason can beat him to literal pulp.

“Too far,” Cass hisses in his ear. Jason’s ears are ringing and his vision is dim and blurry at the edges, but Cass slams his head against a wall and repeats, louder, “Too far.”

“Shut up,” Jason whispers. “Shut the fuck up, don’t tell me _I’m_ in the fucking wrong here when that fucker –”

“Too far,” she repeats.

“You would know, huh,” Jason says, mean and thinking of that video, and Cass flinches. It’s the closest they’ve come to talking about it. “Get off me,” he says, and Cass lets go but doesn’t leave. “What? What now, for fucks sake –”

“Break.”

“Can you elaborate,” Jason says, through gritted teeth. He wants to throw up and, oh, Bruce is going to be a fucking _nightmare_ to deal with when he sees the guy writhing around in his blood and guts, like pedophiles deserve any sympathy at all.

“You need a break,” Cass says, and Jason sees red.

“Shut _up_!” he screams at her, every ugly emotion in him just boiling up, up, up. “Shut up, you think you understand me, you think we get each other? You think you can just waltz in and steal my job and my dad and then tell me take a fucking break?”

Cass doesn’t flinch, but she winces all the same. “Not –”

“Fuck off,” Jason says, and stomps away as loud as he can, yelling over his shoulder, “Go ahead and take care of the guy, since _you_ know what you’re doing!”

  
  
  


Cass tries to talk to him, after patrol, but Jason, worn out after getting chewed out by Bruce and then arguing him about if pedophiles deserve to live (the answer was yes, because _Jason_ had no right to decide who lived and died, and Jason hadn’t had an argument for that because Bruce was right, Jason really didn’t, he didn’t), rolls over in his bed when Cass knocks on his door.

  
  
  


Batman grabs him by the neck and throws him against a wall, pins him there with a hand on the shoulder, and Jason’s too stunned to react.

“This isn’t a game,” Batman snarls, and all Jason can think is _what about Bluebird Nightbird Redbird Bluejay Blackbird Robin Sparrow Wren_ and _what about the costumes you helped me design and make_ and _what about you helping me practice voices and smiles and postures_ and _you trained me for games, Bruce,_ and _please stop touching me_.

Jason says, “Life is just a game,” and Batman lets him go when he squirms. 

  
  
  


It’s a nine story fall. Jason sees it happen: Felipe hits black concrete and explodes like an egg would, limbs tearing open and apart, and Jason’s too far up but he sees and feels and hears it all anyway, the cracking of skull and bones and that shrill scream cut off and the pop of eyeballs jumping out and loose and wet dark red black blood dotting his gloved fingers curled over the railing while gory pink brain matter brushes past his cheeks –

“Bluejay?” Jason hadn’t heard Batman. He’s right next to Jason but he feels far away, at the opposite end of a long aquarium. “What happened?”

Jason stays silent. He tastes blood in his mouth, tangy and sweet and sharp.

“Bluejay,” Batman is saying. “Did Felipe fall? Or was he pushed?”

Jason feels something very awful and ugly and cruel sink in him. 

Fact: Jason just killed someone.

Fact: Jason just broke Bruce’s code.

And what might as well be another fact: Bruce knows this.

Jason is thinking back to his first days of being in the manor and trying hard to behave so Bruce wouldn’t kick him out and how Bruce could kick him out now, easy, he has a replacement ready and now it’s crystal clear that Jason is just a monster like Bruce always suspected –

And, fact: Jason doesn’t remember ever being so terrified.

“I guess I spooked him,” Jason says, calmer than he feels. “He slipped.”

Jason thinks of Cass saying _break_ , and suddenly it’s less malicious and more just advice.

Advice, on how to get better and not lose it. Jason feels sick. _Break_.

“Hey, Bruce,” Jason says, grappling gun ready, and before Bruce can scold him for code names and secret identities and everything, he tilts his head back and arranges his face into something blank, not meeting Bruce’s eyes directly, but what can Bruce tell, behind domino masks?

Bruce has always been able to tell.

Jason says, “I quit,” and swings away before Bruce can say anything.

  
  
  


Jason doesn’t think it’s that obvious, stepping back inside the manor. Sure, he’s still seeing smudges of blood on the tips of his fingers even after he’s peeled off the blood and scrubbed his hands clean with dish soap (smuggled from the kitchens) until his fingers are wrinkly, but his hands are clean and it’s all in his head. There’s no pink brain matter smeared across his cheeks and there’s no blood staining his teeth and there’s no copper taste in his mouth, it’s all in his head and none of it is remarkable, Bruce has helped clean all of that and worse off of him dozens of times after patrol, it’s _nothing_ –

Except Cass, who didn’t patrol tonight because she had homework, catches him take the last step up onto the second floor and whisks him into her room before he can really register her presence.

“I need to shower, Cass,” Jason tries, but Cass shuts the door. “Cass, c’mon, I really –”

“Blood on your hands,” Cass says, clipped and angry and _afraid_ , and Jason quiets, dulls, the words pinging around in his brain with all the chaos of a pinball. _Blood on your hands_ , and some days Jason really doesn’t get what Cass is saying no matter how hard either of them try because there’s only so much sign language Cass can learn and actually use, and then there are days where neither have to try because they click together easily, like a Tetris streak.

 _Blood on your hands_. “I always have blood on them, Cass, it’s a job,” Jason says, but they both know what Cass meant. 

Cass asks, “What did you do?” and Jason stares down at his hands and thinks of the vague fear and anger in Bruce’s voice when Felipe – when Felipe –

“It was so easy,” Jason chokes out in a whisper, still staring at his hands and not at Cass. “It was so easy to just push him over and end it, and just – he – he hurt Gloria to the point she killed herself and he was just going to walk away because he had fucking _diplomatic immunity_ and I was just – I was just –”

He falters. Cass is gripping his elbow, tight and sure and then she’s hugging him, even tighter, and Jason feels very sick and very warm and very cold, all in one nauseous wave. _Blood on your hands_. Jason stares at his hands over Cass’s shoulders and at the red streaks on his nails and the baby pink brain matter on his palms and exhales, shakily.

“I quit,” he tells Cass. He thinks he’s crying. His voice is muffled because there’s a clump of Cass’s hair in it. Cass’s grip is too tight. He doesn’t know how she’s reacting. “I quit, Cass, I quit, I quit I quit _I quit_ –”

“Jason,” Cass says, and Jason shuts up because Cass doesn’t say his name too often. She just starts conversations and waits for him to pick up the pace. “Don’t kill. Don’t do it again.”

“I quit,” Jason repeats. “I don’t – I don’t want to do it again, I quit so I wouldn’t do it again, Cass –”

“Right,” Cass says, fervent and think and Jason thinks they both might be crying. “Don’t regret it,” she says, and Jason finally pushes her away, her grip loosening before he can twitch. Cass is crying. Jason has strands of her hair in his mouth. “Don’t do it again,” she repeats, and Jason just nods, once.

They stand there, Cass silent and Jason shivering, until Alfred knocks on the door and Jason just ducks into Cass’s shower while Cass deals.

  
  
  


6.

A week later, Jason graduates high school on a stormy Thursday night, half past eight, at Gotham’s Children’s Theatre, wearing a white gown and two stoles: a shiny, autumnal brown one for having more than a hundred hours of community service – lunches in the library _paid off_ , somehow – and a bright gold one for being on the Honor roll.

He doesn’t get the gold-white stole for being in the top-ten-percent or the valedictorian medal or speech, but he _does_ get a small crowd of reporters clouding around him once he’s out the theatre with Bruce’s hand on his shoulder and Cass’s arm twisted around his own, their cameras going off in an eruption of loud, violent white flashes that complement the rain and lightning just nicely. 

Bruce is smiling, a rare, genuine smile during Brucie moments, but he doesn’t meet Jason’s eyes once. 

  
  
  


Over the summer, Cass discovers _Keeping Up With the Kardashians_ and Jason gets an internship at Leslie Thompkins’ clinic.

Jason’s known Leslie even before Bruce, since he was five and his mom thought he was going to die from a worse-than-usual fever. Leslie was there when Jason was seven and trying to help his mom through withdrawals and then when he was understanding how to deal with overdoses, and Leslie has known him for the entirety of Jason’s nine-year stint as Batman’s sidekick-slash-partner. When Jason told her he quit, she nearly teared up.

“What a _relief_ ,” she had said, and Jason had felt awkward, watching her rub at her eyes. “If only Bruce and your sister had the sense to do the same.”

“Doubt it,” Jason had said, and Leslie had chuckled sadly.

Leslie lets him take over as a receptionist, calling patients to confirm future appointments and answering phone calls about if swallowing staples warranted a call to the Poison Control Center and walking out to the waiting area to tell people _hi, the doctor’s ready to see you now_.

Some days when the clinic is busy and Gotham’s just having a moment, Jason doubles as a nurse.

“Hey, shh,” Jason tells a crying six year old who’s curled up in her mom’s lap with a badly scraped knee. “You’re being very brave,” he tells her, feeling like he’s a vigilante again, offering quality care to victims and keeping them safe, and the feeling is warm and comforting instead of bitter, like Jason feared: he’s still helping people, isn’t he. “We’re going to need a big bandage. Do you want to pick which one? We have ones with flowers, planets, cars –”

“Batman,” the girl blurts out, looking significantly calmer than she had been seconds ago, and Jason only hesitates for a second before grabbing the yellow-black Batman ones. She smiles, wobbly but sure, as Jason fixes it over her knee, and Jason smiles back. “I like Batman.”

“Really? I like Wonder Woman better.”

“She’s cool, too,” the girl says, thoughtful, and then she’s off and Jason’s left bandaging the next bleeding child.

Cass picks him up (read: she stands outside so they can take the long walk back to the manor together), that day, and something about the lingering memory of the girl with the Batman bandaid makes Jason blurt out, “I’m sorry,” as soon as he gets close to her.

Cass waits, patient and almost expectant, and Jason breathes, avoiding her eyes.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you,” he says, keeping his voice low, partially so others won’t overhear and partially because he’s too scared to speak up. “I – you were trying to do the right thing and help me, and I yelled at you. I’m sorry. And – I’m sorry for using your, your past like that. I’m sorry I hurt you, Cass, I’m – I’m sorry,” he finishes, lamely.

Cass says, “Thank you,” tone neutral, and Jason breathes out, shoulders slumping. “Not a replacement.”

“No,” Jason says, even quieter than before. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Cass agrees. “You’re rude,” she says, and the way she says it makes Jason feel like it’s a Kim Kardashian reference instead of something directed at him specifically.

“Yeah. What’s for dinner?”

“No idea. Mango bun?”

“Now? It’s a ten minute walk from here and then another half-hour walk to the manor, Cass.”

“Your apology. We can call Bruce, after. For pick up.”

Jason sighs and lets Cass tug him forward by the wrist.

  
  
  


Cass helps him pack for Princeton. Jason’s half tempted to ask for Bruce to help instead, because it feels like he should help Jason pick out various polos and give him Princeton stories and whatever, but things between him and Bruce have been strange since he quit, and Jason forces himself to be content with how their relationship has only strained instead of snapped, and just be content with Cass, but Cass knows all of that and probably the reasons behind every other one of Jason’s repressed emotions, so.

It means twenty minutes into packing, Cass has dragged Jason into the home theater and into a long game of Mario Kart, suitcases forgotten upstairs. 

“You’re not good help,” Jason tells her, aiming a green shell at her.

“Shut up,” Cass says, cheerful. She dodges the green shell with ease and throws a banana peel behind her that Jason barely swerves around. “Wasn’t a good time.”

“I leave tomorrow,” Jason says, but neither of them move.

Bruce finds them an hour and a half later, Cass asleep and curled up on one end of the sofa while Jason continues playing.

“What’s going on?” Bruce’s voice is soft, almost fragile like it had been when Jason had just moved in and Bruce didn’t know what he was doing and Jason didn’t know what was going on. 

“We were packing,” Jason tells him, and after Bruce has covered Cass with a blanket and left the room without another word, Jason throws the controller at the TV (missing on purpose so the screen doesn’t _crack_ ) and resolutely doesn’t cry.

  
  
  


Bruce drops him off alone. It was originally planned as a road trip, him, Cass, and Bruce, but Cass begs out at the last minute with no real reason beyond _Not in the mood_ , which neither Bruce nor Jason had an argument against. Alfred and Cass hug him once each, Cass gives him an extra high five, and they’re off.

It’s a long drive. Jason fiddles with the radio and plays the loudest, most annoying songs that he knows Bruce hates. Bruce doesn’t protest or do so much as twitch. 

They stop for gas and Bruce buys Jason lemon-lime Gatorade without asking, and Jason has to bite his tongue to stop himself from yelling, because he doesn’t want an argument or confirmation that yes, Bruce knows Jason killed Felipe and thinks he’s a monster and he’s glad to get rid of Jason –

Jason accidentally slams the Gatorade into the cup holder and the cap bursts off, hitting Jason square in the eye.

“ _Ow_.”

Bruce’s eyes flicker over. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just surprised me.”

If Jason was still Sparrow or Bluejay or Bluebird or Robin or _whatever_ , Bruce would say _status report, Jay_ , and Jason would say _bruised but my vision’s still clear, Batman_ , and they would jump down from a roof and punch a drug dealer or something, but as it is, Bruce says “Hn,” and the car is quiet again save for the angry wails of death metal from the speaker.

“Are you angry,” Jason says, suddenly, after another mile, because he can’t sit still. He hates lemon-lime Gatorade. 

“For what,” Bruce says, with such deliberate calm Jason’s tempted to throw the Gatorade cap – still in his hands, the bottle itself uncapped and dangerously close to spilling a little with every bump in the road – at his face. 

Jason scratches the rough edges of the cap and ignores the blood staining the tips of his fingers. _Blood on your hands_ , and Jason has never really hated Cass, even at the worst moments, but he suddenly does, now, for crystalizing it for him and making it unforgettable. “For quitting,” he says. _For Felipe_ , he does not say, but Bruce has always been good at listening to Jason’s half truths and picking out the real meaning. _For killing him, for breaking your code, for breaking our promise, for not being sorry about it, are you ever going to ask me or make an accusation or just let this ruin us, Bruce_ – 

_Don’t regret it_ , Cass had said. There’s a lot Jason regrets and a lot he doesn’t and when Bruce says, “I’m not angry at you for quitting,” in a slow, cautious tone, Jason regrets asking the question in the first place.

“But,” Jason prompts, anyway, because he’s nothing but Icarus, flying too close to the sun just to burn. 

Bruce is quiet. A Spotify ad for Bounty paper towels comes on – Jason keeps forgetting to switch to Premium or Apple Music. “I don’t know,” Bruce says, finally, then, almost soft, “I shouldn’t have put you in that situation in the first place. I shouldn’t — you shouldn’t have had to see that, Jay.” Then, finally, before Jason can cut himself on plastic, “I’m glad you’re going to school. You deserve to, you — you earned this.”

It’s everything Jason has wanted to hear and not. 

He screws the cap back onto the Gatorade in lieu of answering, then lets a solid ten minutes of death metal to go uninterrupted before talking. “I didn’t want to quit.” _I didn’t want to kill him, but I also did and more than that, I had to, Bruce, I didn’t want to and I shouldn’t have but I did and I had to and you just don’t fucking get that_ — 

“I know.”

“But you think it’s for the best.”

“It was your decision, Jason.”

“Was it,” Jason says, dulled out, and Bruce doesn’t speak again.

They get to Princeton, pull into the parking lot for Wilson College. Bruce tries to grab one of Jason’s suitcases, but he gets swarmed by a gaggle of parents slash reporters as soon as he steps out, so Jason grabs everything and circumvents the small crowd around _Bruce Wayne_ , and sets off to his room alone.

Thirty minutes later, Bruce is standing at the doorway of Jason’s dorm room, slightly rumpled. “Got held up,” he says, unnecessarily.

“I saw, B,” Jason says, sitting cross legged on the floor, leaning against his bed. “It’s fine, I got it.”

“Do you need help unpacking?”

“No, I’ll do it later.”

“Okay.”

Bruce hesitates at the door. “What,” Jason says, smothering a snicker at how comically large Bruce looks in the doorway – the average Princeton student must be _short_. 

Bruce grips the doorway, as if to steel himself. “You’ll be back for dinner next weekend,” he says, not a question or statement.

Jason shrugs. “I mean, I’ll check my schedule and see if I’m free –” Bruce gives him an unimpressed look, and Jason laughs with something like vague relief. “I’ll be there, B, see you.” _Thanks_ , Jason doesn’t say, but Bruce can figure that out.

“Good.” The look on his face is unreadable. “Stay safe, stay – out of trouble.”

“You too.” 

“Take care.”

“Yeah, you too.”


End file.
